glass stars and saltwater veins
by quorra laraex
Summary: Her kiss tasted like candy canes. And well, he always had a thing for peppermint. — Josh/Maya, and the moments in between falling in love


**_a/n:** i have a headcanon that joshua is a band geek and i just. ah.

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><p><strong>glass stars and saltwater veins<br>**(_Her kiss tasted like candy canes. And well, he always had a thing for peppermint._)

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><p>.<p>

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When she is six, she falls in love not once, but twice. Once, with the family with the hysterical father (who very much reminds her of morning cartoons) and the soothing mother (who is a lot like a scarf, warm and pleasant, protective, with a soft angel-like touch) who have a daughter much different than she. She falls in love with the people who pull her in like skin-and-bone gravity, clinging to her flesh with words of reassurance humming through their cinnamon scented air as well as a plate for her at their dinner table.

Secondly, well.

It begins in the first grade, when her hair is tediously brushed and tangle-free, falling just below her snow-white shoulders in waves due to last night's braids. Her mother had told her she wouldn't have had time to curl it the following day since the diner would be _hustlin' and bustlin' with folks _and tips would be practically _fallin' from the sky_ for her. So braids it was. Maya could care less about looking pretty, anyway.

She's wrapped in levels of warmth, cardigan over her dress, and her grandmother's knit scarf over her small peacoat. Her cheeks are a blooming pink, saturated and warm against petal soft fingers and when she trails through the door of the Matthews' vicinity, she's emblazoned with more heat. Welcome arms and cheery _hello's!_ had always been common once she would step foot onto their chestnut floors and she had always known she loved this place the most. If it had even been possible, it's more positive than usual on this day—much louder, merrier, delightful. It's Thanksgiving, after all.

Falling in love with the Matthews family is like falling into the serenity the ocean gives to its inhabitants: it is a fleeting feeling of dream-seas and the nourishment given only by an over-capacity kindred. It is enveloping, consuming, always _always_ there as she drowns further and further into them.

(and she'd always loved the idea of mermaids, so being surrounded in the cold expanse of their waters, despite the sharp sea-glass and fish bones, is everything to her)

Before she knows it, there's this fluttery feeling in her stomach that tickles at her knees and feet and has the ability to paint her ears red. It may have to do with that boy who can't keep his eyes off of her, the one with the dark hair and the dark eyes and the shy smile. And since she's Maya, she'll be the one to introduce herself. She's not even seven yet, and she's just as outgoing as she will be in a decade.

"I'm Maya Hart," she singsongs, flashing her pearly whites.

He's nine years old and he's not supposed to like girls yet. According to his sources (best friend number one, Jason, and best friend number two, Ryan) they were freakishly mutant-like, infested with the infamously known contagious cooties dispersed by 1. long hair, 2. lip gloss, 3. dazzling smiles. Or so they say. It's funny, though, because the minute she places her hand in the space between their small bodies, he takes it, forgetting all about them.

"I'm Joshua," and he really doesn't care if he gets infected or not.

The second time she falls in love is much different: it is not as subtle, but just as natural—less like an ocean, and more like a rainstorm. It is exciting, inconsistent—a burst of euphoria that drenches you to the bone.

(and dangerous, she will learn, in the years to come; when she will be soaked into his rainwater lips)

She would have to wait for the storm to hit or in this case, every holiday, or so. She had no problem with it, though. Waiting is something that she grows used to.

.

.

There's not much she has a knack for doing. Feeling useless has become something of a daily occurrence, despite this age of her adolescence. Maybe it's the lack of parental guidance, support, presence. Or maybe it's the way Riley has it _all_ figured out _all_ the time with _all_ these spectacular talents and Maya can't even name three princesses off the bat.

She doesn't start comparing until she is ten, because that's when her father's letters stop arriving and his existence has fully vanished from her dingy apartment life-style and the kitchen starts smelling like a wave of ash and nicotine in the mornings she looks for cereal. And _my god_, does comparing get the worst of her—evidently seeing the social interactions of Mr. and Mrs. Matthews with Riley and noticing how Riley's smile travels from one ear to the next. She brims with envy, wishing hoping praying that one day she'll have what her best friend has since she's blessed with everything she doesn't.

(and much more)

Besides that, she lacks hobbies, or interests, or things that should color her now-double-digit-age black and white world shades of sepia.

Not until: "Draw me," says the boy with the onyx gaze, the turquoise cone birthday-party hat falling crookedly to the side of his head for Riley's tenth. December eight happened to fall on a Saturday that year, perfect for a family and friend gathering. Riley, with seven other screaming girls in frilly pink fairytale-esque costumes had been coating their faces with powders, all pampering with a cross between princess-ing and super modeling whilst crowding around a heart-shaped vanity along Mrs. Matthews new Asian-inspired rug. Maya had liked that rug since she'd first laid her eyes on it, with its intricate design and abstract shapes among the inner corners.

"Huh?"

"Draw me," he repeats almost sheepishly, somewhat curious with his tone kind. "…I mean, since you spent your entire time drawing a matt, maybe you could draw me?"

Her eyes squint in question, fixating her stare to the piece of parchment in front of her, looking at how she'd absently doodled every detail neatly in proportion to the carpet, colours delicately chosen as well. Right down to the gold lining embroidered into the emerald seams.

And so she steadily takes her time to flicker her eyes back and forth, from his patient gaze to the notepad resting on her thighs. And she says: "Okay."

Later, she will discover the power of pastels, paints, pens, but for now, she is more than content with simple crayolas.

(and much more, actually)

.

.

She is exposed to classic rock when the Matthews bring her along to Philadelphia in the summer. Josh likes to blast music in his room whilst playing an air guitar accompanied by grinding teeth and bed head. Maya thinks it's certainly entertaining catching him in the act with a toothbrush in her mouth.

Josh thinks it's even more entertaining how after this summer, ninety-two percent of her wardrobe will consist of band apparel ranging from The Rolling Stones to Nirvana.

.

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Dancing is an art.

It takes grace, agility, quick paced steps in cavalier elegance. It must be swift and cutting, not too choppy because sporadic moves were usually sloppy. Moves should be as sharp as Joshua Matthews looks in that suit. Not that Maya noticed or anything. Of course not.

She_ had_ noticed, however, how he'd watched the bridesmaids twirl and twirl under the luminescent strobe lights of the dance floor, away from the dining area where they'd been sitting. Her focus wanders toward his eldest brother, dipping his bride (named something the blonde Hart couldn't remember) with a grin that captured the youth of Eric's face as if he hadn't been a day over twenty-four.

Placing the eating utensils she'd been idly toying with onto the lacey cream table cloth, she stands. After patting nonexistent dust off the lap of her dress, she encouragingly states, "Let's move."

It's not much of a demand, nor is it an invitation. It is more of a disclosed offer, and watching the way her eyes gleam under a flashing viridian luminescence is enough for him to grasp her palm and follow her onto the platform, going along with it.

He listens as the beats reverberating along the walls begin to slow down, and this is the part where many of the men in tuxedos place one of their hands along the woman's waist and another interlocked with her own. She watches his hesitation in amusement, wondering if he's going to chicken out and trail back to the table.

"I don't bite," Maya prods, and he steps toward her.

(the _liar_, he learns years later when his bottom lip is caught between her teeth)

.

.

"I'd say it's been awhile."

It sure has.

"Boy, you grew up gorgeous."

And the smiles are endless.

/

He's not supposed to find her attractive—his _niece's_ best friend. He's not supposed to give her genuine compliments like so and drown in the blue of those pretty irises, eyes he'd been accustomed to seeing annually. He's not supposed to have this magnetic attraction toward her and find it alluring how well she could wittily manipulate a conversation with _the_ Shawn Hunter and outsmart his very own brother.

And so instead of allowing himself to become nervous in the process of speaking to her, he simply doesn't. He devotes his time to Auggie, the baby growing up just as ridiculously fast.

But let's remember: he's fifteen and he's a sophomore and this is the time where he's feeling just a tad rebellious. This act will surely fall to the gutter soon enough, he's aware.

This is where it starts: with her sitting beside him at the dining table, the blonde initiating accidental encounters involving nudging elbows during the meal and his accidental encounters involving the way his feet lightly tap at hers under the table. She smiles between bites and although he avoids eye contact, his lips always seem to have an identical shape to hers.

Throughout the course of the dinner, the two do not seem to notice the knowing stare of his brother's best friend as he spoons mashed potatoes onto his plate in silent diligence.

/

The day Shawn takes the Matthews along with him to upstate New York, he is sure comment on their proximity while sitting together (since Riley had been attending to Auggie) on the bus.

"I'm keeping an eye on you two," the Hunter mutters, looking back from his seat with suspicion wrapped in a condescending proclamation.

And Maya stares, Shawn stares, and Josh laughs before assuring, "You have nothing to worry about, Mr. Hunter."

(and he, too, is quite the liar, Maya realizes in the years ahead of them)

.

.

Sometimes, they are brought together by chance.

Perhaps it is a mere coincidence, or a work of kismet, a kiss of fate.

But every time: they go along with it well enough.

/

He is raised well.

He knows his _pleases_, his _thank yous_, and _excuse me's_. He gives compliments freehandedly and has a tendency to clean up after messes, regardless whether or not they were his. He goes to school, only ditches class once or twice a month—always (falsely) excused, at least: no truancies.

But he has his fair share of problems growing up with a mother during her age of menopause and a father who tends to be bitter over his acceptance process of growing old. He may be the youngest of his siblings, may be the most spoiled, but with the standards set by an accomplished older sister and the attitude guaranteed from a woman who had been all smiles and nurturing once upon a time ago when Cory had been his very age, there are times when Joshua Matthews feels pressured with the expectations that constantly compress as he continues his last year of high school.

Cory had always been the favorite, evident in the way their father's eyes twinkle when glazed over his older brother. However, the resent their father had kept intact regarding every single one of his failures, involving how the two of his graduated sons hadn't gone to a more prestigious university, is used to set a bar for his very last. Alan pushes pushes _pushes _Joshua—_son, don't be stupid; know what you want in life and get it, earn it_—always constantly ringing in his ears. He knows that every time his father tends to try to hurl him toward an aimless direction, he's indirectly making a jab at his other children's professions.

And when Joshua retaliates with his own comebacks regarding his father's previous occupation, ironically familiar to the time Cory had had an outburst regarding pride, heritage, work so, so long ago, Alan raises a hand, nearly seconds away from clapping against the boy's face. Amy interrupts during these times, and they dismiss each other. Joshua becomes accustomed to being left panting in adrenaline, wondering how many times they'll be pushing each other's buttons until his father will show pride in the way he wants to dedicate his time to music.

The day the youngest Matthews spends over a thousand dollars from his college fund on an entire drum kit is the day where he's driven out of his home.

/

"What are you doing here?"

"I could ask the same to you," he replies, curiosity deepening his already tired face. It's 2:18 AM and with his spare key, he had quietly shuffled into his brother's abode with a duffel bag in one hand. He hurdles his luggage toward the end of the couch, exhausted. He hadn't been able to sleep in the multiple public transportation he had taken in order to get there. However, his eyes never leave the blonde with a mug of what he assumes to be hot chocolate. The living room is barely lit, but he's able to make out half of her face from the kitchen light.

The Hart tiptoes toward him, moving at a leisurely pace. "Well, I often get invited to spend the night," she drawls before raising her eyebrows, pointing to the bag resting on the cushion. "Looks to me like you're here to spend more than a night."

He almost sighs, and before he has a chance to explain, she continues.

"You don't need to tell me," she murmurs with an understanding sentiment matted into her voice. "We all have our own war."

Josh can't help but gulp, recalling too vividly the events of hours before. He doesn't know when his view had moved to the floor until his vision begins to blur in puddles that he prays will not get heavy enough to ripple down.

And then she's in front of him—the girl that looks much older with her sharp jaw and defined cheekbones, the girl that still remains many inches shorter than he, the girl with the large ocean eyes that he'd first seen nearly seven years ago in this very room—except her arm is not outstretched between them with an anticipated hand; instead, her arm is bent and her hand rests on his chest more hesitantly than forceful. She is close enough to feel his warm, anxiety-intoxicated breaths blowing at the hairs above her forehead. When his throat tightens, she feels his chest tense below her touch, eyes as glassy as stars.

He loses it seconds after soothing words escape the gap of her lips.

"You are not alone."

/

Somehow, they are able to stay awake until the late minutes of six AM, the night consisting of talks of family, of futures, of life. They share things they haven't with anyone else. Somewhere between the hours of the night, she had offered him comfort in the form of a positive outlook—_they just want security and is scared about having to see loose ends end up causing some sort of downfall in your career, and hey, maybe they care too much, but they _care—and he had offered her an escape—_if you ever just want to train or take a spontaneous flight away from this city, I'll show you a _real_ adventure in Philadelphia_.

/

Maya falls asleep before he does, forgetting to return to Riley's bedroom and not leaving much space on the couch for him. Not that he minds.

His eyes linger upon her for a short while, her head resting on the opposite arm of the couch and her hair sprawled in waves of gold around her, taking her in and never daring to exhale.

"Thank you," he whispers, motivated to make amends and deciding to travel back days earlier than he had planned (preferably after breakfast with her, since they will be the last ones to wake up). She doesn't need to hear him to know.

The following morning, Auggie is the first one to find them with their flannel pajama legs curled up and tangled within each other's.

.

.

It becomes rather difficult for her to wait as she ages.

This is (maybe probably most likely) due to her bursting hormones and lack of physical contact at age sixteen. Or something. Whatever.

(not that he hadn't been going through the same dilemma—and for _years_, too)

He kisses her when the clock strikes twelve on the first of January. There are fireworks outside the Matthews' condominium and in his stomach and below his ribcage, confetti in their hair, glitter on the lids of her eyes, her arm around his neck, another raised high above her head with a noise clapper that rhythmically beat to her racing heart, and his around her waist. She tastes like candy canes and chocolate and god_damn_, she's addicting. She really is.

.

.

Maya's usual pastel blonde hair may be drenched and there may be an absence of all sorts of articles of clothing under her trench coat resulting in goosebump-coated skin and a lot of shivering, and she may have used up a quarter of her savings in tips at the diner for a plane to Philly for one night, _but_ it's February fourteenth and this was an absolute _must_.

(especially knowing that Amy and Alan are _always _out the night of Valentine's Day)

She doorbells about twenty times, the incessant chimes consistent with her freezing impatience. And when he finally gets around to opening the door, she watches as his eyes light up and it reminds her of Christmas morning.

"Happy birthday," she greets, and he pulls her dripping wet body into in a warm embrace that sweeps her off the ground. The way her name escapes his lips makes the wait worth it.

She'd always liked rainstorms, anyway.

"Are you ready for your present?" her cherry lips curve into a smirk as she slowly pulls the tie of the heavy coat free.

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Time is of the essence. It is what they manage well within their sporadic meetings. It is what they make for each other, what they depend on, what they need, what they share.

But like always: they make it work.

And throughout his entire life, he falls in love not once, but many times: every time, with the very same girl.

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_fin._


End file.
